Proper Education
by havelocke
Summary: He was a human in training. [axel x roxas]. au.
1. he marches to the beat of one drum

**Warnings:** This is a new writing style I'm testing. I hope this works out.

* * *

Proper Education

* * *

"_The second half of a man's life is made up of nothing but the habits he has acquired during the first half."_ –Fyodor Dostoevsky

* * *

-1-

Boom. The moment that sperm hits that egg his life begins. It only takes a second of contact, maybe even less, for nature to determine his existence. It'll take about nine months for the vessel his existence travels in to form and thirty six hours for it to come out into the world.

When he's born, everything is decided—from what color his little booties will be, to the college he'll attend—and he will accept it. Because there's nothing he can do, but wail and spit up every once in a while.

Then his life begins (at least he's conscious of it now), and he's a human in training. From the start he strives for perfection. He doesn't wail at ridiculous hours of the night to be fed, nor does he get irritated when something is wrong. Time goes on without sparing him a glance, and before he knows it, he's walking and talking just like them. He's taught to act, and he learns that Time is hardly of what they call "essence", since it's nothing but seconds and minutes strung together to make days and years. And once he knows how to act, how to perform his role as a human being, he has nothing to do but wait until his next lesson.

And that's his life up to this point. It's a cycle of performance and wait, Time and production.

He keeps this cycle going because it's one of the many habits instilled onto his brain.

_Lesson one: Recklessness leads to consequences that are to be feared, following orders leads to results that are to be worshiped._

This mantra keeps him safe from the monstrous claws of individuality, where creativity may lead to foolishness. He learns that foolishness is counter productive and nothing is more frightening to him than being useless. Therefore he lives a strict life of ethics because ethics help the world go round. Ethics make him look human.

_Lesson two: Appearance is everything._

Yet the sheer veil of appearance fails to cover any ugliness and unhappiness one might feel.

So he struggles to look righteous even though he feels like he isn't completely righteous. He questions, and then stops himself from going further. Questioning leads to examining one's flaws and he refuses to admit he has any of _those_.

Having flaws means…

Chaos.

Complete and utter…

**Chaos.**

He is the opposite. He is cool, calm, and collected. He is perfect.

Thus he resumes his training. Taking all lessons without questions and getting outstanding results. He becomes human…super human, because he can follow by **and** lead by example.

He is man at the highest point of intelligence…

However, he fails to realize the one flaw in men who reach this crescendo of abundant intelligence and limited action…

They Fall.


	2. he watches the world go by and smiles

-2-

Roxas wakes up every morning at 6:15 a.m.

Today he wakes up a minute later than usual and he feels off beat.

He begins to count in his head to get back into the rhythm of his routine.

His shower lasts twelve minutes and he dresses in five. He moves swiftly around his room, collecting books and neatly done homework, and placing them into his school bag.

By the time he gets down stairs, it is 6:35 a.m.

---

He goes into the kitchen, where his father sits with his newspaper, pretending to read the news. His mother is busy making eggs, pretending his father's state does not bother her.

She is, in theory, the good wife. She is confident in her beauty, for she keeps her body trim and her hair done just right. She helps keep peace within the home, for she doesn't nag nor does she question her husband's whereabouts on late work nights. She is happy and she tells her self this every morning her eyes open. She is _happy_ because she smiles, nods, and responds with 'yes honey'. She is _**happy**_ because she is what everyone in high school thought she would be, the good wife.

She smiles at Roxas, and for a millisecond he swears the smile is a bit strained.

He sits down and is served breakfast.

Nothing looks wrong with the picture they paint. It's just a family at breakfast.

Father turns another page; eyes skimming too fast to catch information.

Mother is smiling; making more eggs than any normal human should eat.

And Roxas is eating; counting how many chews it takes before his eggs are soft enough to swallow.

---

At 6:45 a.m. his twin brother, Sora, rushes down. He is a whirl wind of rush and impatience as he plots himself at the table and begins to scoff down enough eggs and toast to choke on. Mother smiles and pets her younger son on the head affectionately. Sora talks, talks about soccer, about school, and about friends. Sora tips his head back and laughs, it's a pure laugh, the type that grows from the back of one's throat and vibrates outwards with feeling. He is everything Roxas is not and will never be. Sora is everything. Sora is happy.

And nothing is wrong with the picture they paint.

It's a family at breakfast.

Sora keeps talking, father grunts, mother smiles, and Roxas drinks more juice.

---

At 7:00 a.m. Sora leaves, shouting that he has to meet his friend, Riku.

"I'll be late today because of practice," he says.

Roxas knows better.

He knows more than anyone that Sora only has practice every other day and that **today** is not one of those **days**. He knows this because on those **days** like **today** Sora is with Riku, doing things to each other that aren't allowed, things that aren't ethical.

Mother nods, and then smiles.

"Yes honey," she responds. Her voice is understanding and saccharine.

She wrings the washcloth she wipes the counter with. Roxas sees her knuckles turns white.

Just like Roxas, mother knows too.

---

At 7:05 a.m. Roxas is waiting for the bus. It will be there in five minutes.

So he waits.

He waits in the cool morning air and doesn't move when the wind bushes against his skin. It makes those short soft hairs on his arm prickle up. His eyes travel and he sees that the sky is so heavy with blue it looks like it might fall. The sun is so bright that its rays bounce off vibrant colors. The grass is greener than yesterday and the birds are singing the songs everyone likes to hear. Nothing is wrong with the world right now and for some reason this _irks_ him. He doesn't know why, but it does. And even if it irks him a little to notice that all the houses look the same; to know that nothing is wrong and that the bus will be on time today, he knows that it isn't enough to make him question anything.

There is nothing to be said.

So he waits and begins to count time. He lightly taps the seconds away against his thigh.

He waits to see the hump of the yellow bus rise from the hill.

He waits because there is nothing else he can do.

He waits because Time is all he has to spare.

* * *

**Note:** I'm proud that this is getting a positive response...I will admit, this story will take a while to develop. I hope people are willing to stick with it.  



	3. today is like yesterday

"_I was unlike everyone else, and everyone was unlike me"_ –_Notes From the Underground_, Fyodor Dostoevsky

* * *

-3-

Today is no different.

Father is reading the paper. Mother is cooking breakfast. Roxas is chewing his food.

Father folds his paper and clears his throat. Mother stops what's she is doing to smile at him. Roxas sees what father doesn't. Mother smiles, her lips stretching to their limit, making the tiny wrinkles she detests, appear at the corners of her mouth. Father gets up and leaves without a word. His paper is left behind.

Mother pretends that father left a kiss on her cheek. She cracks another egg.

Roxas chews. He has lost count.

Sora comes down, rushed and as full of energy like always.

Mother sets his plate.

"Can I go to Riku's tonight? His mom invited me to dinner," he says already shoving scrambled eggs into his mouth.

"Yes honey." She smiles and runs her hand through his spiky auburn locks.

She turns around to clean the counter and Roxas knows it's because she can't keep up her smile anymore.

Sora finishes his breakfast and flies out the door.

Mother finishes and turns to Roxas who begins to drink his juice.

"How's school?" she asks tilting her head to the side a bit.

He swallows his juice, it's tangy and sweet.

"It's fine."

"Anything interesting?" and she perks up, trying to look interested.

"No."

"How about your friends?"

"Don't have any."

He looks at his glass. It's half full. She tries to smile to lighten the awkward mood.

"And your grades?" Her voice sounds slightly impatient and tense. She's trying to get him to say the right answer.

"Straight As."

She sighs and her shoulders relax. She looks defeated.

"I guess all that matters is that you're doing well." She says this more to herself.

She stares outside the kitchen window. Her eyes watching the water from the sprinklers land gently on the grass.

Roxas wonders if he said something wrong.


	4. he thinks himself a martyr

-4-

School is about performance.

And Roxas manages to shine.

It was simple.

School is an institution that tests one's ability to retain information and follow directions. And he finds that people's inability to do this is due to the lack of structure in their lives.

He feels his classmates' eyes knife onto his back. He pretends this doesn't bother him and recites the answer accordingly from his workbook. The teacher nods and smiles. He sits back down and waits until no one else knows the answer.

And that is his role. He is their _savior_. He doesn't answer questions because he pities his peers. He answers questions because he is meant to save them. Without him, the classroom would never make progress. So he saves everyone, saves them from feeling shame and embarrassment, and gives the correct answer.

He thinks that students will continue building the future and in order to accomplish this, students have to learn. They are meant to be productive. Students that aren't disciplined will bring down the productivity of the class. Therefore, the teacher will have to repeat information for those that are behind and prevent other students, like him, to move forward.

Thus, to help the teacher reach their intended goal for the end of the year, he answers their questions. Roxas believes in ethics and he thinks that if he's going to move towards the future then he might as well bring his peers along.

He stares at the board, watching the teacher write an assignment for those she felt weren't listening too well.

Although their heads are bent towards their notebooks and their pencils are scratching the surface of their papers, he feels the aura of animosity begin to cloud together. He feels like it will choke him if he breathes in any deeper.

He doesn't understand why his peers dislike him. He is their _savior_. He is selfless in his actions because he wants them to learn. He wants them to succeed. He wants them to be productive. He wants them to make society proud. He wants them to reach the crescendo in the song that is their lives. He wants them…

…to be just like him.

Even though he can recite the assignment verbatim, he takes his pencil and begins to write. This will take his mind away from breathing in the thick air. This will take his mind away from the disgruntled eyes that aren't looking at him anymore.

The bell rings, and he's thankful that it's lunch.


	5. the ripple effect

-5-

He doesn't have any friends and this does not bother him.

He stands before the crowded lunch room, his brown paper bagged lunch at his side.

The room is a tidal wave of sounds. Students are buzzing around with enthusiasm, words are thrown around, conversations become entangled into one another, and this is too much for the blonde's sensitive ears.

He could never eat here.

Roxas makes his way through and he hopes to reach the other side without drawing too much attention. He is not in the comfort zone of the classroom and he feels as if he's walking through a pack of ravenous animals. The fact that he can't function within their socially constructed world makes him bait to feed their bruised intellectual egos. So he walks diligently and with speed. One false step and they will devour him. They are under the authority of no one and he knows his intelligence will not save him.

He survives and makes it to the Usual Spot.

The place itself was nothing special. It was at the back of the school where there stood a sterile paopu tree. It gave good shade and the grass beneath it was soft. There is an old and tattered maroon couch under it. He always sits there, letting the cool breeze brush against him while he eats. Sometimes he has company. Her name is Olette. Every now and then she sits and eats with him. She talks and he listens. She considers him a friend. He considers her an acquaintance. They coexist and the world moves on.

Today she comes and is upset about something. He chews his food and listens.

"I don't know what to do. I like Hayner as much as I like Pence, but I don't want to hurt either of them."

She's playing with the straw in her juice box.

He studies the blades of grass at his feet as they are molded by the wind.

"What should I do?"

The question hangs in the air and she sighs. She knows he will never answer.

"Neither," he says. She looks up from the straw at him. She thinks a ghost spoke. She repeats her question.

He repeats his answer.

She smiles and for a second he's reminded of his mother, only he doubts Olette's smile will ever strain. He hopes it never will.

"Why?"

"They'll get in the way of your productivity." His voice has no emotion.

"What?"

"Productivity," he repeats in case she was slow in hearing.

She rolls her eyes. "I know what that means, but that seems like such a dumb excuse." She pouts and continues to play with the straw.

"You need to focus on school, not boys," he says.

"You sound like an old man," she laughs, "So what if I choose one?" She raises an eyebrow and Roxas notices how green her eyes are.

"You'll eventually go to the other," he says looking at the grass. Her eyes are a brighter shade of green than the grass.

She frowns.

"That won't happen," she says, and it feels like she's saying it to stop it from happening.

"It will."

"What makes you so sure?"

He looks at her.

"Because you want them both."

"I can't have them both. That's two timing."

"It isn't ethical to have both. But you want both."

She opens her mouth, but closes it and plays with the straw again.

"But still…I…" She bites her lip. "I don't want to end up alone." And she looks at him and her eyes are now as dark as the grass. This makes something pull at his chest.

He looks down, ashamed, and he doesn't know why.

"Focus on school. You don't need them," he says trying to ignore the tight feeling growing in his throat.

He looks up and her face softens. The pull at his chest is back.

"So you _are_ capable of feeling." She laughs and tilts her head to the side.

He averts his eyes again, concluding that she is the cause of his chest hurting so much. His eyes try to focus on the grass again, but all he sees now are her eyes staring back.

Then he feels them, her lips on his cheek. The skin underneath flares up.

"Stay that way," she whispers.

And at those words, his ears twitch and grow hot. He doesn't know whether he's embarrassed. He looks down at his fingers digging into the bread of his egg salad sandwich.

He eats in silence as she talks about her plans for the weekend.

The next day, he skips lunch.

She sat there waiting.


	6. i am he and he is me

**Note:** I'm getting back into the groove of things. Hope this makes up for my lateness. Sorry about the wait.

* * *

"_I made up whole stories about myself and put myself through all sorts of adventures to satisfy, at any price, my need to live." –Notes from the Underground,_ Fyodor Dostoevsky.

* * *

-6-

On Wednesdays he comes home an hour later than usual because he tutors math.

When he gets home, he sees his mother out front, busy working the dirt to make room for more flowers.

The house looks like any other house, but the flower garden is what makes it unique. While everyone has their garden beds full of tulips, daisies, and sunflowers. Mother has a distinct array of flowers with scents that tickle his nose every time he gets near. Their exotic shades of purple and blue, and rich reds and oranges make his eyes dizzy. And mother takes pride in this, just like she takes pride in her perfect family, and the perfect life she lives.

"Your brother is already home," she says, and she looks up, her face under the shade of a large sun hat. She is smiling because, for the moment, they are outside where people can see them.

"Alone?" he asks. He sees her smile falter, and she averts her gaze to work on the dirt some more. It is soft enough to put the flowers in now, but she works it nonetheless.

"No."

He knows it makes her uncomfortable to say _his_ name because saying it will mean a lot of things. Saying it threatens to shatter the perfect environment she managed to build her entire life. So she pretends the issue doesn't exist. She pretends _that_name is just a good friend and that _it _is not in her house in between the legs of her precious boy.

"Mrs. Strife!"

Mother looks up and her smile is as bright as the flowers she's planting.

The neighbor from next door stops by and Roxas watches from the door. They make small talk and mother makes sure she looks happy. She giggles accordingly and responses appropriately. The neighbor doesn't suspect anything. There is a comment where his name is said and mother turns to smile at him. She looks so proud of him and the neighbor wonders why Roxas doesn't smile like his mother.

He doesn't smile because he's watching his mother's hand holding the flowers. She's holding them tightly and it looks like their nonexistent thorns are prickling her as her hand shakes

The neighbor keeps talking and Roxas goes inside.

---

On Wednesdays Roxas is in charge of making snacks. He goes into the kitchen and makes sandwiches. Once done, he goes up the stairs and instead of turning right he turns left to go to Sora's room.

He notices the door is ajar and doesn't knock. There are noises, lips smacking and panting. Roxas watches these sounds come from his brother and Riku.

His eyes are drawn towards Riku, whose hand starts at the base of Sora's neck and ends up traveling down a smooth path towards Sora's navel. Sora mews a moan and Roxas swallows thickly and finds that his throat is still dry. He studies their movements, studies the way Sora buckles when Riku's hand disappears below his shorts, studies the way Riku pants when Sora grinds against him. Roxas tells his lungs to breathe as he's caught up on looking. There's warmth forming at the pit of his stomach, and it spreads through his veins like a virus. He doesn't think he can stop looking and feels like his knees are about to snap from the stiff form he's standing in. Sora and Riku don't stop. They don't stop their lips smack, their tongues clashing; they don't stop their rocking or their hushed moans. Roxas doesn't stop either and his eyes feel like desert pools from the lack of blinking.

He blinks and it hurts to come back to reality.

He tenses and remembers the sandwiches. His hand forms a fist and before he can question whether or not he should interrupt, his fist makes contact with the door. He sees the boys break apart; Riku cursing from under his breath and Sora looking flushed and trying to put on his shirt. Roxas steps back, licking his dry lips, hoping that no one else saw him looking in.

He's gone before Sora opens the door.

---

He doesn't go down stairs to eat. He thinks he will never get the image out of his mind while Sora and Riku eye each other knowingly.

So he takes out his books and spreads them neatly onto his desk.

He begins with French.

Its 4:30 p.m. and his pencil glides over paper and he works smoothly through the problems. He works until French isn't French anymore and is now the writing of an ancient language he's supposed to know, but never got around to learning.

His can't seem to concentrate and his mind ends up rolling backwards. It's replaced with images of Sora and Riku.

The pencil stops, and his hand is gripping it tightly.

He can hear them. He can hear Sora's pants echo in his mind as Riku presses his lips against his abdomen, tongue slowly lapping around the navel. He can hear Sora's heart beat, as well as his own, increase as Riku begins to go lower, where the hip and thigh bone meet. His lips brush against that soft patch of skin and Roxas, along with Sora shiver. Riku's tongue slithers down even further. Sora arches up and Roxas holds his breath. He can feel it now, the heat, as it circulates from his heart to his groin, and the hot moist cave of Riku's mouth on him. He moans when he can't bite down on his lip anymore and thrusts upward to go in deeper. Roxas knows this is wrong. It's wrong because two males will get in the way of productivity. And it hits him that it shouldn't matter that it's wrong because at the moment Roxas is Sora and he's free to do whatever he likes. He counts his chopped breath as Riku comes up, teasing the tip of his cock with his tongue before engulfing him again. Roxas can't control it any longer and soon he finds himself spilling. He gasps for breath, mouth opening and closing and he feels like a fish out of water.

The pencil snaps.

Roxas jerks up and his chest hurts as it heaves.

It's 5:15 p.m. and he looks at his homework. The work book is full of foreign scribble that doesn't look French anymore.

He tries to calm down. His tongue feels like sand paper and it's uncomfortable to swallow.

He looks at the remains of his pencil and squeezes it in his hand. How could he let himself get so careless?

He's angry at himself for thinking such thoughts. He's angry that it's 5:15 and at 5:15 he always, without _fail_, starts his math. He's angry at the fact that Sora gets away with_ everything_ while he's restricted from _everything_. He's angry at himself for thinking he could be Sora and do such nonproductive _things_. He's angry at everything, but most importantly, he's angry at Riku for being the source of his current dilemma.

He stands up from his desk and shoves all his books and writing utensils off. Anything left behind he rips and throws down. There is heat circulating through his system and it feels similar to the heat of Riku's lips on his skin. He smiles as he keeps destroying. _"So this is what happiness tastes like?"_ and he wonders if one could die of so much excitement.

And before he knows it, the desk is bare and his chest is heaving as hard as it was before. His heart races and his veins throb as blood surges through.

The door swings open.

Roxas opens his eyes. His breath is hitched, his hands are sweaty and in tight fists. The broken wood of the pencil is digging into his soft flesh and his desk is as neat as when he started his homework.

He stands up and turns to see his brother. Sora's face flushes at the sight of Roxas and the brunet quickly averts his gaze.

"Mom said it's your turn to cook dinner tonight," he says and it's so rushed that it takes Roxas a second to decode. Before he can answer, the door shuts and he's alone covered in a thin layer of sweat.

He turns to look down at his desk and notices the wet stain on his pants. He takes a deep breath and goes to his dresser. After changing into a clean pair of pants, Roxas goes down stairs to make dinner.

The next day, he is unprepared and decides to skip French.

* * *

**Note: **Before anyone asks, their parents are not Cloud and Aerith. I just like the last name Strife. 


	7. the road most travelled by

**Note: **A double update because I feel this story doesn't get enough love.

* * *

- 7 -

Today he is waiting at the bus stop. The sun's rays filter through his soft locks, making different shades of blond contrast against each other.

He is also skipping French again.

His left hand is playing with the change in his pocket, a finger rubbing against the gruff ridges of a large coin. He looks at the bus schedule again. The local bus comes at 12:45 p.m.

It is 1:15 p.m.

He waits and examines the bus map. There are two bus routes. One is blue and the other is red. One is for the local and the other is for the express. The local route follows a straight blue line, stretching from one end of the island to the other. The red route starts with the blue at one end and the lines diverge in the middle. The red breaks off and disappears onto an invisible map.

Roxas studies this. He will take the blue route. It is the most predictable. It is the safest.

He hears the sounds of a motor approaching. He looks down the road and sees the sun bounce off metal. There are digital letters that read EXPRESS on the front of the bus.

He swallows and the hand in his pocket twitches.

The bus stops in front of him and the doors swing open. The bus driver is not the usual yellow school bus driver. The man looks gruff and there are hours of work hanging under his eyes.

The man looks miserable.

Roxas thinks this man will never be a yellow school bus driver. He thinks the man would sooner shoot himself than handle a bus full of chirpy giggling children.

The man speaks; his voice is tired and annoyed.

"Are you getting on or not?"

Roxas feels his body freeze. His head begins to say no, while the hand in his pocket twitches yes.

The bus driver rolls his eyes and the doors swing shut. The motor roars and the bus leaves. There is only exhaust fumes and dust in its place.

---

He waits another five minutes and he sees another bus. The letters at the top read LOCAL.

The doors swing open and Roxas sees that this bus driver looks as miserable as the first. He finds his feet moving before he makes his decision and his hand dumps the change into the slot.

He looks for an available seat.

There is an array of normal people on board. An old woman reading a tattered book; her wrinkled hands shake as she tries to turn a page, a mother verbally chastising her child, who refuses to sit still, and a man idly staring out the window, his calloused hands clasped.

And there is nothing wrong with the picture they paint. They are just people riding the bus.

Roxas feels out of place.

The bus moves abruptly and he jerks forward. He quickly moves to a seat near the front.

As the bus moves, the scenery goes by.

He is sitting stiffly. His knees are together and his neck is as straight as his back. The old woman reading the book turns another page, she frowns to see some are missing. The mother angrily pinches the squirming child and he begins to cry, she tries to muffle his cries with hugs and apologetic whispers. The man is still staring out the window, his calloused hands clasped; one of his legs is shaking nervously.

There is nothing wrong with the picture they paint. They are just _normal_ people riding the bus.

Roxas feels at ease.

He slouches and watches the scenery go by. It feels like he's traveling through universes. Every stop looks like a different world. People of all shapes and sizes get on and get off.

He leans his head against the thick glass window, not minding the jerks and jumps when the bus runs over bumps. He feels intoxicated with the smell of stale air the air conditioner blows on him.

---

He wakes up when the bus driver jabs his shoulder. They have reached the end of the line.

He gets up. He rubs his arms; he's cold from the air conditioner. His head feels slightly dizzy and his eyes are still heavy with sleep.

He gets out and finds another bus schedule.

He waits a half an hour for the bus that goes in the opposite direction and he makes it back in time for his last class.


	8. speak up, the dead can't hear you

* * *

"_Taking a new step, uttering a new word, is what people fear most."_ –Fyodor Dostoevsky, _Crime and Punishment._

* * *

- 8 -

Today is Thursday.

It's a family tradition to go out for dinner on Thursdays. It is the only day father comes home from work early, the only day Sora doesn't utter _his_ name, and the only day Mother's smile looks less strained.

Roxas comes home and finds Sora sitting on the couch, lazily watching television. His feet take him towards the stairs.

"Why don't you go to French any more?"

The question is flippant and hangs in the air like a cloud. Roxas stops, but doesn't turn around. He can picture Sora flicking through channels in search of something good to watch.

He is silent and debates on answering his brother's question. He thinks if he doesn't answer, then the question in turn doesn't exist, therefore what he's being doing by taking the local bus between the hours of one and three is not wrong.

"What would mother say?"

Roxas stiffens. Sora's second question mocks more than asks and Roxas turns to look at him. He can only see Sora's mess of brown hair.

He feels his chest rise as he takes in a breath. "Nothing," he says, because if mother were to find out that he went for bus rides instead of going to class, she would just smile even harder.

Sora says nothing and just switches to another channel.

Roxas turns around and goes up to his room.

---

It's 6:30 p.m. and father is not home yet.

The family tradition of going out for dinner on Thursdays at 5:30 p.m. is now broken and he can picture his mother down stairs, smiling while wringing a wash cloth until her knuckles bleach. He wonders if his father is truly late or if he just doesn't want to go.

Roxas pushes his unfinished math homework aside and stares outside. The afternoon sky is orange and the red sun sets right behind the tips of the trees. The world outside is normal. Children are coming home from after school activities, parents are coming home from work, and mothers are busying themselves in the kitchen for dinner. He wonders why these routines come so naturally to them and wonders why his own routines feel make him feel like the life is draining out of him. It's as though his soul is like a thick iron block which sinks further and further as the days roll by. It makes things difficult to the point where he thinks he won't be able to walk or breathe. He feels the lightest during his bus rides, when his lungs fill up with the stale bus air and his senses are teased with odd bumps, sounds, and sights.

"Roxas."

His name breaks him from his thoughts and the blond turns around in his chair. Sora is at the door, a hand on his hip while the other is on the knob.

"Mother says to come down. We're going to dinner without father."

Roxas feels his forehead frown and his lips do the same. He gets up from his chair and he wonders why he hasn't fallen through the floor yet, he feels _that _heavy. He licks his lips once then twice and as he opens his mouth to answer his brother that he'll be down in five minutes, his mind kicks out another answer.

"I'm not going."

Roxas' eyes widen in horror and he resists bringing his hand to his mouth. Sora looks confused.

"Why?" and he leans on the door this time, head tilting to the side, blue eyes curious.

Roxas swallows and it feels thick against his dry throat.

"I don't like going."

A heart beat.

Sora straightens up and seems to ponder the reply as he chews on his bottom lip. Roxas feels the weight of his soul wavering between the weight of an iron block and the weight of a bird's feather. The swaying between the two is making his head dizzy and he doesn't think he can last much longer while he stands.

"Then pretend like you like it, like always do." Sora shrugs.

Roxas looks at his feet now, ashamed that his brother knows him better than he does himself. He looks up at Sora, who's pouting in concern.

"Roxas," and his voice is apologetic.

Roxas narrows his gaze, forcing his blue eyes to darken. His lips scowl and his ears tingle. He feels his jaw tighten and when he opens his mouth to say "I'm not going," his voice is crisp, firm, and cold.

Sora's eyes dart from side to side in confusion. That is a side of Roxas he has never seen before. It was a side that Roxas didn't even knew he had.

Sora nods, eyes still unsure, and closes the door behind him.

Roxas collapses onto his knees, breath ragged and chopped, hands digging into the soft carpet. Despite the cool exterior he displayed, Roxas is a mess of tangled nerves and emotions. He looks up and for the first time since he could remember, he feels the corner of his lips curl upwards into a smirk.

Who knew that speaking for one's self was this invigorating?


End file.
